


In Your Hear Shall Burn (Vengeance, Bright and Cruel)

by circadian_rythm



Series: Inquisitor!Kass and Companion!Mel [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, this is an angsty one, why do I do this to Melarue?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circadian_rythm/pseuds/circadian_rythm
Summary: The Cunning One awakens to a world gone silent, and Melarue picks up the pieces.





	In Your Hear Shall Burn (Vengeance, Bright and Cruel)

Sylaise’s guards come to the Pleasure District before Elgar’nan’s peacekeepers or any of Melarue’s spies. It is a surprise that they managed it quicker than the latter. But she likely knew beforehand, Melarue suspects, before it was even unveiled and seen.

Melarue feels the air go cold, the sound of metal against carven stone echoing, and they wonder if they have been discovered. No, no they have been too cunning for that. They have hidden their tracks, used so many twists and turns that the path that links them to anything is so rife with traps and false leads, no one will find a way to get to them.

It is Splendor.

Sylaise has sent  _Splendor_  to apprehend them. He does not venture to the Pleasure District for himself, and never with a contingent of guards, all fully armed. They catch on to any small wisps of thought or emotion they can, to get a glean on what their purpose here is.

…to decide if Melarue should finally run from this place.

But all they can feel is nervousness and…pity? Pity for what?

They walk into the main antechamber, all smiles and graciousness. “Splendor, a rarity to see you here.”

Splendor nods his head, and there is that flicker of pity again, hidden in the depths, but Melarue sees it. “Our Lady has summoned you. You are to come with us.”

Summoned. They have been  _summoned_. They nod, catching the eye of one of their attendants, “Please send condolences to my clients for the rest of the day, as I will be indisposed. And be certain to collect the hibiscus flowers for my bath later in the evening.”

The flowers are a signal, to contact certain members of their network, to warn them to be ready to flee if things begin to stir.

Perhaps tonight is the night they finally kill Sylaise.

…or die in the act.

—

Sylaise is stunning, as usual. So perfect in face and proportion that she is wrong,  _off_  somehow.  _She never learned the art of true beauty,_ Melarue thinks, as they bow low, skirts billowing out around them like the ripples of a pond.  _She strives so hard for perfection that she has made herself monstrous._

So many people forget, that the best lie has a bit of truth in it. Without any imperfections, a face becomes unsettling.

“My dear Melarue,” Sylaise murmurs, reclining against her throne. “I hope I have not called you away from an important appointment.”

“Any appointments are of little importance in comparison to you, My Lady,” Melarue dips their head again, letting the pins in their hair glisten in the light. “There was no inconvenience.” They rise, smoothing imagining wrinkles in the fabric of their dress.

Sylaise nods, “I apologize then, for bearing such ill news to you.”

Melarue stiffens. This is it, then. Sylaise knows. They reach up a hand to straighten a hair pin, ready to pull it free; long and thin and sharp and coated in a fast-acting poison.

“It deals with your son, Aelynthi.”

Their hand falls to their lap as their mind goes oddly blank. Aelynthi? Was has happened to him?  _He is not involved in my plans. I have never allowed it. There is no way he could be linked with any of it._

“My father had commissioned him for two pieces. Sculptural fountains, one for his main holdings and one to be gifted to my mother. My father ordered the set as a testimony to the greatness of Elvhenan and our victories against the Nameless.”

That is not an odd request, nor is it something beyond his skills. What has happened, then? Out of the corner of their eye, they can see Sylaise’ guards place hands on their blades. A preemptive move; they think Melarue will attack?

_What has he done?_

“The piece was to be unveiled in my mother’s honor at a banquet in three weeks time, but my parents came to see the work early, to make certain it was worthy of them.”

They found fault with it somehow, then. And Aelynthi is being punished…

“I am certain my son did not mean to offend the creative sensibilities of your honorable and just parents. He is eccentric, you well know.”

“I know very well,” Sylaise nods, “But his piece was not something that can be smoothed over with an apology. It was a mockery.”

“I do not understand—”

“It was treason, Melarue.” Sylaise nods her regal head, “A subversive piece that undermined my mother and father and the glory of elvhenan.”

They think fast, the screeching halt of shock churning into panicked speed. Melarue feels their legs give way. They fall, but they do so gracefully, maintain their decorum as they slide to the ground in an artful heap, every inch of them penitent and pleading, prostrate against cold marble.

“I have a confession to make, My Gracious and Honorable Lady,” The words taste like ash upon their lips, but they say them all the same. They have been swallowing their pride for thousands of years, this is nothing. “I am the one who created the piece, not my son. He had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh Melarue…sweet thing…” Sylaise sighs indulgently as she leans forward and runs a perfect hand along the side of their face, before cupping their jaw. “The strength and love of a parent is amazing, truly. But while you are many things…you are not a sculptor. That is something we both know.”

_I am older than you. Older than this disgusting city paved with the corpses of the People. Do not patronize me._  They smile morosely, looking pleading and guilty. “I have kept the talent from you, of course. I did not wish to suddenly be moved to some new area of your great city when I could do more for you here.”

“Aelynthi is dear to me, you know. I remember him as a small child, so willful and bright-eyed.” Sylaise continues, “But I cannot do anything to save someone who so willfully attacks our great city and the sensitivities of my loving and just parents.”

Ah yes. Mythal and Elgar’nan. Loving and Just. Most certainly.

“I can do nothing for him.” Sylaise reiterates, and has the gall to look apologetic. “But I wished to warn you, before the execution. You are a valuable asset. I would hate for you, in your misplaced grief as a parent, try and stop mine from fulfilling their rightful duties.”

A lie. How stupid does Sylaise think Melarue is, that they cannot see what Sylaise is trying to do? Sylaise has coveted her mother’s position since she was old enough to shift her features. A pathetic, insecure tyrant, though she has always hidden it better than her fumbling husband.

Melarue is old. Sylaise knows that well enough. Melarue had worn Mythal’s vallaslin before she wore Sylaise’s, before she had been given to the young girl as a  _gift_. Melarue is old and powerful.

Perhaps strong enough to kill one of Sylaise’ bothersome parents? That is what Sylaise wishes to find out, it seems. To see if Melarue will kill one and weaken the hold of the other so that she can finish the job on her own?

To use Melarue as the pawn she thinks they are.

_Perhaps there is a bit of cleverness in you_ , they think begrudgingly. For Sylaise knows that regardless of Melarue knowing it is a trap…she also knows that Melarue will do anything for their son.

“Thank you for being so thoughtful and kind, my Lady,” Melarue murmurs, head bent low. “I will strive to maintain my decorum, as your servant first and foremost, and a parent second to such things.”

“That is all I ask,” Sylaise nods. “…you must be present, of course.”

“Of course.”  _You I will kill slow. Your parents will go quick, but you…you I will take my time with, oh_ gracious and kind lady _._

—

They have witnessed innumerable atrocities and watched with a calm demeanor. They have seen terrible things and smiled and offered their services. They have lied and tricked and never once have they taken off that perfect mask.

But it is cracking today, they can feel it.

They did not let their grief and rage show when Nithroel was sacrificed.

They will not allow the same to happen to Aelynthi.

Victory is near the edge of the raised dais; on his knees, staring up at Elgar’nan and Mythal as if somehow he could convince them this was all a mistake. As if the sight of the twisting forms of Aelynthi’s latest work were not displayed for all to see.

_Oh my son_ , Melarue takes a step forward.  _I did not teach you to hide it well enough. Your anger and resentment…this is my fault. All my fault._

“He did not mean it, My Lord. It was not meant this way,” Victory pleads, looking so small and broken before the tyrant king. “It was not meant to insult.” His face is covered in bruises and cuts, and a vicious burn crawls up his left side. A token of his lord Elgar’nan’s esteem for speaking out, most likely.

“Are you saying my husband cannot understand the messages this artist has attempted to convey?” Mythal asks calmly.

Victory stumbles, trying to find words. Melarue takes another step closer through the crowd.

Aelynthi looks up from where he is held, and meets Mythal’s eyes. “I meant it all.”

Melarue moves the moment Elgar’nan lifts his hand, and feels a coldness slip over them as hands grab them from behind. More than they can count, magic sizzling under fingertips, pulling them taught against leather armor, and they catch glimpses of other colors and shapes they know as their magic is dampened and held tight by their captors.

And Aelynthi begins to scream.

The arms holding them tremble, as Melarue nearly falls, opens their mouth to scream along with him, but the magic silencing their voice is firm. Subtlety, they think. Nieven, Aelynthi’s first apprentice, stands to their right, gripping their arm, eyes never leaving the flames. And Morwen, one of their own apprentices and a frequent bedmate of Aelynthi’s, is on their left. And it is Faunalyn, Faunalyn who crushes them to her chest and is sobbing in their ear.

Their son. Their son. No no no nonononononononoooooooo.

His screaming grows, high pitched keening. They  _cannot save him_. They cannot protect their child, and as the smoke rises and the flames lick at blackened, cracked skin, they feel something crack open inside of them as well.

Hot and putrid and hateful.

They do not look away. They stare, watching as Aelynthi writhes, the sound of his pain echoing across the crowd. As no one tries to help. As they all watch Melarue’s son burn as if he deserves it.

As they stare at burning flesh, all they can see is a small child toddling with uneven steps, arms outstretched toward them.  _Nanae, nanae!_

He is screaming it even now, they are certain of it and they cannot  _save_  him. They try to throw off the ones holding them close. But Subtlety and Nieven and Morwen and Faunalyn hold fast. Hold them back.

_My son. My son! Give him back to me!_

Faunalyn gasps out a choked sob, hot, wet tears soaking into Melarue’s hair and the silk of their collar. They try and break free. _He is our son and you are letting him burn! You are doing nothing. Let me go, you cowardly bitch I will free him myself! I will kill them all!_

They wonder how their emotions could possibly remain calm, how Faunalyn’s grief and their own hatred is not palpable in the air. But Subtlety, Morwen, and Nieven remain firm, gazes and emotions numb and closed off, and that icy numbness has blanketed the two parents as well.

They planned this, Melarue knows. Planned how they would all keep Melarue from killing Mythal and Elgar’nan rather than planning Aelynthi’s escape. They will never forgive them. Never.

That is all they can think of, as Aelynthi’s screams continue.

They will never forget those screams. And they will never forgive those who caused them.

—

They awaken in darkness—jolting awake, cold and shaken like they have just been ripped out of their own body and shoved back inside it.

The first thing they do is kneel and vomit. Hot, acidic bile empties onto the ground in front of them. Gone gone gone. Everything is gone. There is nothing, only screams and Aelynthi Aelynthi their son their precious baby he is gone gone gone gone—

There is no magic. Only a vacuous feeling inside of them, hollow and hungry and needing to be filled. They try and grasp for anything, to give what little magic they can feel form, and it sputters and dies on their fingertips as they curl in on themselves, forehead pressed against cold stone as they gasp and sob.

They are being crushed with the weight of its absence. It is difficult to breathe. Through their grief and their fury and their fear, it takes them a long while to calm enough to begin to focus. To notice where they are.

For several minutes, the only sound is their shuddering breaths.

Finally, they sit up, their body heavier than it should be, weighed down by so many things and nothing at all.

They are not in complete darkness. There is a residual glow from…from the walls. Soft sparkles, glowing pinpricks on black stone, small blue veins pulsing in the pitch black. It takes ages for Melarue to finally manage a small light in their palm; like pulling a square object through a circular hole; it doesn’t quite fit.

They are in a low, rectangular shaped room carved into the bedrock of this place. Glyphs for sleep and silence and sealing line the walls and floor.

Trapped. They had been trapped and sealed here.

_Betrayed_ , a dark voice whispers in the back of their head.

They remember bits and pieces of things in their dreams, watching the world fall, unknown battles, unknown peoples…so distant and yet so close. Muffled and grey, in a world that had once been vibrant and full of color.

Fen’Harel’s failure…and the creation of the Veil. And in the end he put them to sleep, let them live, after all they have done.

_I will not forgive so easily_ , they think, as they try and muster the strength to stand.  _What a fool, to think that he could solve his problems by boxing them away, putting them in a neat little hole._

Like he convinced the other Nameless leaders do with  _them_.

Another mistake.

There is nothing of use in the room, they realize as they take stock of their surroundings. The clothing covering their body is nearly gone, fabric that crumbles and turns to dust as they manage to get to their feet. The ceiling is low; they must duck, slightly, to keep their head from scraping across the top.

A hairpin clinks against stone. They pull it free, let their hair fall about them, as they eye the long, thin blade attacked to the coiling image of a snake. The magical properties of the metal have kept it from rusting entirely, but it has lost its luster.

A weapon, at least. That is all Melarue needs it for.

The door reacts to their touch, sucking small rivulets of magic from their fingertips and filling the tiny crevices in the stone. A wave of dizziness hits them, then, at the sudden pull, along with fatigue. No…no they have slept for so long. They will not do so again!

They shove the door open, stone scraping against stone, and the air becomes lighter as they slip outside. They suck in several lungfuls, and make note of the odd stench that drifts from further down to their right.

Something skitters in the darkness ahead of them.

They narrow their eyes, peering into the long, jagged passageway that veers off of the carved tunnel they find themselves in. It looks to be the product of a cave in or some sort, the wall collapsing in on itself to reveal some natural cavern on the other side.

The noises are coming from the other side of the wall.

The first beast tumbles through the cave and Melarue slams their hairpin into it’s neck, just above the plated armor it wears. It convulses, and they shove it away, taking their hairpin with them. The smell of its blood is noxious, and they cough.

They nearly trip over some leftover rubble from the cave in, but catch themselves on the cavern wall.  _It looks…it looks like…_

It is wearing armor, and has two arms and two legs, and a face twisted in some gross mockery of the People, snarling out from beneath its helmet.

They remember…they remember something, from their sleep. Pulling the memories gained from the Dreaming is difficult, bits and pieces of stolen fragments that they must put together themselves. This creature is…tainted. A foul thing of fouler make.

A Hurlock? Is that the word that they have heard whispered?

From what they remember…these monsters are not solitary.

The second crawls through the opening with a bestial hiss, a third following quickly behind. This one lifts its sword, and it catches with an echoing ring against Melarue’s own thinner blade, the metal holding up even as their arms threaten to buckle.

Weak. They are so weak, and so so tired.

_I will not die here_.

They let themselves fall back, elbows slamming into solid stone as the Hurlock follows suit, caught off balance, and they kick, sending it behind them onto a stalagmite behind them. They do not look back, but they can hear its death throws as they eye the three others that have found their way into the smaller passageway.

They cannot continue like this. They do not have the strength to fight such numbers, especially armed this way.

They swallow, and hurriedly dig sharpened nails into their palm, feeling skin split, hot blood dripping down their wrist. They press their fingers into the wound and wince, before turning to bolt further into the darkness to their left, to the smell of cleaner air, and to the carved glyphs still legible in the dark.

They smear blood along its edges, and pour whatever magic they can into them.

Their vision goes white, just for a moment, and then the stones in the walls flicker with inner fire, as their blood flows across glyphs and they activate with a deafening crack.

Melarue turns back toward their pursuers, just as the ceiling splits, and stone falls with a deafening roar. Symbols for barriers spring to life around them, flashing briefly as the last bits of rock bounce of harmlessly.

The Nameless carved these passageways, and they carved them with traps in place, to collapse bits of stone and close off passageways as they went. Melarue remembers such glyphs well.

Their palm throbs, and they curse softly, coughing at the dust that has filled the air. They cannot spare the magic to heal it, not right now.  Not as a figure lurches out of the dust and lunges for them.

One of them escaped the spell, it seems. They groan as they grab for their hairpin. It falls from numb fingers, clattering to the ground as they throw themselves backwards to avoid the swipe of the wounded hurlock’s blade.

It whistles past them in the darkness, striking stone. Sparks glitter in the air like fireflies in a field, going dark in the blink of an eye, as Melarue falls to their knees and turns, grabbing onto bits of old armor as they pull the creature off its feet.

It growls, as Melarue heaves themselves to their feet, to brace their feet, as the Hurlock tries to do the same.

They slam the creature’s head against the side of the cavern. 

The sound of metal ringing echoes. Once, twice, as its claws scrabble for purchase, as it tries to grab them. They summon some of their old strength, ignoring their body’s protests with a growl of their own. The metal groans as it caves in on itself, and they hear the squelching, sucking noise of blood and brain matter and let the creature drop.

They collapse onto the ground, gasping for air, and reach out to grab hold of their fallen hairpin. The coiling serpents’ eyes flicker, like living things, as Melarue runs a thumb along one scaled head. They…cannot stay here long. And they cannot fight more of those things with a bloodied hairpin and uncertain magic.

They twist their hair up and tuck the pin into its depths, before reaching for the hurlock’s sword. They begin to unbuckle the creature’s hilt and pause, gaze landing on its armor.

They…they will need some protection, if more are to come.

They begin to strip the corpse.

—

They do not know how long they crawl through darkness. Time becomes irrelevant, as they channel their fury and grief into magic and blade and cut through the creatures that come after them in the pitch black.

They imagine how they will kill those who have wronged them. They mutter a list of names into the darkness, a whispered mantra that keeps them moving forward when they wish to stop.

They follow the taunting breeze, the wafts of clean air that tell them that the surface is near, that it lies just beyond, just out of reach.

The light burns.

Their eyes well with tears, and Melarue lets them slide down their cheeks, making clean tracks on dirt-covered skin. They fall, and press themselves to the grass beneath them, and breathe in short, unsteady breaths.

The air is sweet, and clean, and cool.

They have made it.

It is…difficult not to simply lie there and fall asleep. It has been so long since they’ve closed their eyes for more than a few minutes at a time. Their body aches, and they do not have the magical reserves at the moment to heal all the cuts they have accumulated in their escape. Their feet, they know, are a bloodied mess.

But if they fall asleep now, they will die. They must keep going…they  _must_.

By the time they manage to get to their feet, dusk has begun to fall. They look out over the valley below, and tighten their grip around their stolen blade.

_May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent._

That is how the saying goes, does it not? From stolen dreams, they have gleaned these words. Murmured around campfires, fearful and reverent.

Melarue laughs, and it is cold, and hollow. “Pray to who you wish that I do not catch yours, Fen’Harel.”

And they head down into the valley, leaving bloodied footprints in their wake.


End file.
